A Temporary Wedding
by misty malone
Summary: Post Reichenbach. In order to dismantle Moriarty's web and keep up his fake identity, Sherlock happens to need to be married, and Molly Hooper happens to be the only woman that knows he's still alive.
1. Chapter 1

_Hiya everyone!_

_This is my second Sherlolly fic, I hope you like it. _

_This chapter's kinda short, I promise the others will be longer :)_

_I don't own Sherlock or any of these characters, though I'd like to one day..._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter One

"Ah, brother dear. So nice to see you again."

Sherlock glared at his older brother and started drumming his fingers on the mahogany wood of the table. He was even more irritated at Mycroft than usual; he had been carrying out an extremely important experiment at St Bartholomew's when that Anthea lady had burst in, demanded that he 'come with me right away, Mr Holmes' and then brought in an entire troupe of security guards at Sherlock's refusal.

"I can get rid of Moran on my own. I don't need anyone's help, especially not yours."

"Yes, but you do need a fake name and passport. I thought you'd be grateful to me for sorting all that out for you." Sherlock sighed, reluctantly admitting to himself that Mycroft was right. "I could have done that on my own," he snarled, annoyed at being beaten. It was somewhat useful of his brother to have done all this - he'd have had to do it himself otherwise, which would prove very difficult seeing as to everyone except Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes was technically dead.

"Here's the envelope with your passport, European Health Insurance Card, driving license, birth certificate and credit card." Mycroft stiffened as Sherlock opened it. "Benedict Cumberbatch," he said indignantly. "What kind of a fake name is Benedict Cumberbatch? It'll just make me stand out."

"Sorry about that. There's another slight problem with the identity, but there's a way of sorting that out."

Alongside the birth certificate was a marriage certificate. To someone named Louise Brealey. "Mycroft," Sherlock pronounced angrily. "This Benedict Cumberbatch person is married."

"Ah. Yes, there was a slight error and you got mixed up with another client. Somehow they got it wrong and.. well, your fake identity is married."

"Well, you're going to have to ask them to do another fake identity."

Mycroft straightened up and adjusted his tie. "They can't do one in time for the date you have planned. You could cancel, but -"

"No, I can't cancel because Moran is off to Bolivia the day after the event. It's the last chance we have," Sherlock growled.

Mycroft sat down. "But you forget," he said, quietly smug, "there is one solution."

"You can't possibly suggest that I get married! That's preposterous, you know there's no one I could marry and can't you just ask them to hurry up and to prioritise making my second fake identity above their other clients'?"

"Sherlock, you are forgetting someone."

He paused. "Molly. Molly knows I'm alive and we could divorce afterwards .. Thank you, Mycroft. I don't know if she'll agree to it but it's the only thing we can do." He rose to his feet and put his coat on, then hailed a taxi back to the hospital, and it wasn't just because he had an experiment to finish.

Molly was hurrying down the St Bart's corridor. She wasn't in a rush, just angry. She had been convinced that the date had gone well last night, and he was handsome enough - short brown hair, tanned, grey eyes, tall and well built - and then he'd broken it off by text, saying that he was getting back with an old acquaintance from university and was sorry but didn't want to be with her any more and that they probably shouldn't keep in touch because his new girlfriend might be mad at him for it. Why, why, why did she never meet someone who actually wanted to be with her? There'd been several men that hadn't gone further than the first date, probably because of her small bust and lips and general mousiness, and then there was Jim. Jim, who was sweet and made her coffee but turned out to be possibly gay, blew up a poor old lady, was arrested for stealing the crown jewels, and then shot himself. Molly wondered what going on a date with Sherlock would be like. They'd go somewhere special, not just to the cinema or to a restaurant or something, and then she'd admit that she had liked him for ages and -

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see where I was going!" Molly squeaked to the man she'd just bumped into, and then blushed crimson when she realised that it was him, the very man she'd just been daydreaming about. Sherlock Holmes. Great. She'd just walked straight into him like a bumbling idiot.

"No, it's fine," he said, then gave her a quick smile. "Look, Molly, I kind of need to ask you a favour."

"OK," she nodded. It was probably just something like another body he needed to experiment on.

"Molly, I have to track down Moran - Moriarty's sniper - and my brother's given me a fake identity. A fake identity who so happens to be married, so I need someone to pretend to be my wife, and you're the only woman who knows I'm alive." Molly couldn't believe it. Yes, it wasn't exactly for the reasons she'd imagined, but Sherlock Holmes was asking her to marry him.

He continued. "We could fake divorce afterwards, we wouldn't have to '_do_ anything.'" (To be honest to herself, Molly would quite like to '_do_ things' with Sherlock, but she was never going to tell him that.) "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'll do it."

"Thank you, Molly. Can I see you in the lab tomorrow to talk more about it?"

"OK, see you there," Molly said, smiling nervously. Sherlock left and she felt like she was going to jump for joy. She'd be married to Sherlock Holmes! Sort of!

She was almost glad the man from the night before had dumped her.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hiya! Here's Chapter 2 xx_

_Hope you like it, reviews make me happy and when I'm happy I update faster..._

_As before, I don't own Sherlock. Sad face._

_Love Misty xx_

* * *

Chapter Two

Molly curled up on the sofa with her favourite movie, blankets, a cup of cocoa and Toby, who promptly yelped and leapt out of her arms the moment she picked him up. "Charmed," she muttered.

Not even a rejection from her cat could dampen her spirits. Her and Sherlock Holmes. Married. (Fake married, but at that moment she really didn't care.) Except she'd now learnt that he was not a Sherlock, he was a Benedict (maybe she'd call him Ben) and she was a Louise (maybe he'd call her Loo) - or at least they were on the night of the Ball they were attending, which Sebastian Moran was to be present at. According to Sherlock, this Moran person was trying to kill a very important political person who she'd forgotten the name of, and Sherlock's job was to capture or possibly kill Moran before he killed the very important political person. It was all very complicated. But a ball! Oh, thought Molly, how amazing would a ball be. And it wasn't just any ball, it was a fairy tale themed ball, which Sherlock seemed repulsed of by the very notion. Would she have a dress, she wondered, and would that be fairy tale themed too? She'd never really owned anything of as much value as a fancy ball dress, but she could scrape together her savings. It would be worth it. Maybe after he'd got rid of Moran they'd be time for a dance and Sherlock would -

The phone rang and Molly hastened to pick it up. "Hello?"

"Molly."

"Oh, Sherlock! What a... surprise." She mentally cursed herself. Now not only did she sound like an idiot, but like she'd forgotten about the whole thing.

"Molly, my brother has messed things up again. On purpose this time."

"What is it?" She was slightly nervous that he was going to call their arrangement off.

"He's organised us an actual wedding. Apparently, they might need absolute proof of our wedding, and he says the only way to get the documents we need is to _actually get married._"

A wedding! "But - what -" she attempted.

"We can't get out of it. If you don't want to anymore then you can pull out, I don't mind." Molly sensed that he did mind, but didn't want to show it.. What did that mean? Grr, Molly, she thought, stop playing psychologist. Especially when the person in question is Sherlock Holmes.

"No! No, it's absolutely fine!" More than fine. It was perfect.

"The wedding's only in a week. You're going to need a dress. Mycroft's personal assistant will meet you outside your flat at 2pm tomorrow for the fitting."

"And.. where is it?" Another dress. Molly was a bit worried about how excited she was becoming about dresses. Two of them.

"Nowhere of great importance. My brother's booked it at Kew Gardens."

"Thanks, Sherlock. Um, see you?"

"Thank you, Molly. Goodbye." He hung up and Molly metaphorically exploded all over the carpet. A wedding! She thought for a moment and came to the conclusion that Mycroft was not organising their wedding because of the documents. If he'd managed to get fake passports, birth certificates and credit cards, the necessary marriage papers wouldn't be too hard to find either. She suspected he might be matchmaking, but then what did she know about Mycroft Holmes except for that Sherlock hated him?

Something also told her that Sherlock had figured this out already himself. To say that he was cleverer than her would be the understatement of the year. But as yet, he hadn't refused to fake-marry her.

Hmm, Molly thought, this should be interesting. What would happen next?

* * *

Sherlock waited impatiently for Molly to arrive.

Why did the bride always take so long in walking down the aisle in weddings? It was stupid, wasted time and the worst bit was the guests are supposed to look amazed and stunned by the bride's beauty and her dress and all that consumerist rubbish. A bride is just a woman with makeup on in a fancy white dress, he thought, and yet everyone else was supposed to ooh and aah at her like she was something of actual interest.

Still, that was in traditional weddings, and this was not a traditional wedding. When Molly finally arrived, she was in a simple but tasteful dress with minimal makeup on and held a bunch of lilies. Apart from the fact that in the marquee there was too much white (it got on his nerves), this wasn't as bad as he was expecting the situation to be. He flashed a quick smile at her and she returned it.

The vows were boring. Sherlock wasn't actually listening to them, but tried to act as if he was - the guests believed that the marriage was real, so he'd been firmly told by his brother to pretend this was the best day of his life, because apparently that was what ordinary people thought about weddings. He knew he must have looked somewhat uncomfortable, but Molly was doing it perfectly. She even looked like she meant it when she said 'I do.' How on earth did people do that, pretend that something that was really just faked was real, and more than real, but a huge landmark in their lives?

And then came the words they had both forgotten about.

"You may kiss the bride."

* * *

Molly knew they had to kiss. It was a wedding, for god's sake, and all the people watching were hanging upon their every move. Sherlock let out a breath, and then whispered "Sorry about this" so quietly it was nearly inaudible, and pressed his lips lightly to hers.

She felt her breath hitch in her throat. Kissing Sherlock Holmes was just like she'd imagined it - his lips were soft, warm and somehow, despite never showing an interest in love or any form of romantic relationship, he was a very good kisser. They pulled away after a few seconds. She was sure she must be blushing red, but the crowd didn't seem to have noticed at all. They clapped, enchanted by the beautiful false love they'd just witnessed. People are so simple minded, thought Molly, and then nearly smirked because she realised she was beginning to think like Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't found the kiss so bad. If he had to kiss a woman or have some terrible consequence bestowed upon him, Molly Hooper would probably be top of the list, but wasn't something he would do normally. Although small, her lips were soft and tasted of her lipstick. He smiled, remembering all those days in the lab where he'd comment on how she changed it so often.

Yes, he concluded, he didn't mind too much about this marriage at all.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you so much to all who reviewed! I love all of you so much :) I was going to PM everyone who reviewed to say thanks, but there's quite a few people who have reviewed, so I'm just going to say thank you here if I haven't messaged you already :)_

_Hope you like this chapter, I apologise in advance for Sherlock's frustrating behaviour :) as always, reviews and stuff are appreciated._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Three

There was no honeymoon.

Sherlock had decided to stop the ostentatious celebrations there; they had a very important task to finish, and any sort of deviation from it could threaten its completion. He had to focus. Molly Hooper was merely part of the plan, and when they'd managed to complete it then they'd divorce and go back to normal. Simple as that.

But he couldn't help but feel a little pang of the feeling he loathed most.

Sentiment.

Bloody sentiment, so complicated but so _common _among the ordinary. The ordinary... was Sherlock Holmes himself developing an ordinary side? He couldn't bear the thought. That was it: he had to distance himself from Molly. Any further contact would distract him from his work, and that could be disastrous considering the current situation.

Despite the lack of honeymoon, Mycroft had insisted on a night in an expensive hotel up in London, and having paid for this before even asking Sherlock and Molly, there was no way to refuse. Sherlock was sat in one of the velvet armchairs in their suite when Molly came in. "Sherlock!" she said, smiling. It was remarkable how her whole face had lit up upon seeing him. Maybe she too had acquired unsuitable affections. "Molly," he said, in a tone quite opposite to hers.

She smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes. Then she frowned. "What is it? Is there - is there something wrong?"

"No, no, Molly, I'm fine," he said, rather too quickly, waving her away. "Thinking."

"Hmm." She stopped like she didn't know what to say. "What about?"

"Molly, I'm _thinking_," he repeated firmly. That had been a little too harsh. He internally cursed himself. She knew he didn't like to be disturbed, but he shouldn't have reacted that way.

"Oh," she said, stifled, and then went to hang her coat up, the light gone from every inch of her face.

Now look what you've done, Sherlock thought to himself. Yes, you don't want to become attached to Molly, but that did not mean brushing her off entirely. She could still abandon him and then the plan would fail. She came back into the room and he attempted to smile at her but was met with a scowl. He'd never encountered an _angry_ Molly before. He didn't know that an angry Molly existed. And he really didn't know how to deal with one.

"Molly-"

She sighed and ignored him.

"Molly, I-"

"Stop trying to act like you're sorry!" She turned to him, her expression angry and sad at the same time.

"But I am sorry," he said plainly.

"No, you're not! I don't understand, Sherlock. Over the past few weeks you've actually regarded me as a person and not just a _thing_ who helps you with your _stupid _experiments," she cried. "But now you're being horrible and acting like nothing ever happened!"

Sherlock looked down at his hands. Part of him wanted to say sorry (and mean it). Part of him wanted to carry on as he was, without emotion or feeling, with just his work. Which possibly was enough. And part of him wanted to just hug her, which he felt somewhat ashamed of.

He settled for the first option, but just as he was about to say sorry, Molly stormed out, leaving him dazed.

Sometimes Sherlock wished he had feelings, feelings like ordinary people; he hated to admit it, even to himself, but sometimes being ordinary was an advantage.

* * *

Molly didn't know where to go.

She felt slightly silly, having just stormed out of a room with nowhere to storm _to. _She just supposed she'd come back in to the hotel room, say sorry for shouting at him, melt into a big puddle of tears on the floor...

But for some reason she didn't feel like she could face Sherlock after the previous exchange. It was almost like one of her tragic love stories she liked to cuddle up in bed and read: the woman devoted, willing to do anything for a man who didn't even acknowledge her existence. Except in reality, Sherlock would never like her back, and Molly would keep on watching him from afar like a lovestruck hawk. She didn't blame him either. What man in their right mind would see her as anything beautiful or sexy or romantic? No, she'd stay this way her whole life. Sad. Unwanted. Like a sparrow amongst swans.

She found herself walking out of the hotel, her eyes red but not crying, and heading for St. James' Park. Yes, Molly would go to the park and sit for a while, maybe buy a book and read it on a bench and watch the world go by. Then she'd come back relaxed and confident, and she would not apologise. She had no need to. What had she done? (All right, she had shouted at him, but not for anything he didn't deserve.)

That was when she saw him. Sitting on the bench she had been about to take.

He looked so different. He was in a navy blue suit_, _his dark brown hair neat, stubble on his chin and upper lip. And then there were his eyes. They held an intensity they never had held before.

But most importantly, Jim Moriarty was _alive_.

It began to occur to her that she should go somewhere he wouldn't be able to see her. For god's sake, this man had people killed. He tried to kill Sherlock, he tried to kill John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. She started walking away from him, slowly, as if any small movement could alert him to her presence.

Jim's eyes locked with Molly's. He seemed to recognise her.

He smiled slowly. Why hadn't he spoken to her? Was he toying with her? Molly wondered. Even so, she was glad to walk straight out of St. James' Park and abandon her plans.

* * *

Molly found a coffee shop, ordered a hot chocolate, then sunk down into one of the leather chairs. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

_Hello, love. -JM_

Her blood ran cold. Now Jim was texting her. He was an evil, psychopathic criminal, yet he bothered to text her. He must want something from me, thought Molly. She didn't know what to reply - the smallest thing could offend him - yet she was sure she was safe here, it was a public place and Jim didn't know where she was... hopefully.

_I'll phone Lestrade. -Molly _she typed, her fingers shaking. The reply came almost immediately.

_Nice try. No, you won't. I would recommend a biscuit with your hot chocolate. You look starving. -JM_

So he did know where she was! The situation was getting worse and worse.

_How do you know where I am? -Molly_

He ignored her. _I would also recommend you do not tell Sherlock that I'm alive. I'd hate to have to hurt you. -JM_

And now he was threatening her. _You found out that he survived? -Molly_

_Oh, Molly. I knew that he'd survive before he even jumped. -JM_

Another text. _Sherlock is about to come and say sorry to you. Stop texting or he'll suspect something. -JM_

She obediently put her phone back into her handbag and stirred her hot chocolate idly. It was scary; in two weeks, Molly would be helping Sherlock kill Sebastian Moran. And as if that wasn't enough, she had the most dangerous man in the world watching her every move.

She was in far too deep and there was no going back now.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hi everyone! Here's Chapter Four of A Temporary Wedding._

_I am really, really sorry but I won't be able to update as fast as I have before because next week I have six exams in five days (scared!) and so I'll sadly be spending most of my spare time revising, but I promise that I'll try my best to write new chapters whenever I can._

_Again, thanks so much for reading and reviewing this, you all make me so happy. _

_As always, I do not own Sherlock or any other characters._

_Love Misty x_

* * *

Chapter Four

Sherlock Holmes didn't like the feeling of guilt.

It wasn't one he was used to, actually - he'd never really considered what other people thought of him, how people were hurt by his deductions of them that he'd bluntly point out. It was only after his suicide that he learnt that sometimes, no matter how scandalous the person in question's past was or how many pounds they'd put on that week, it was better just to keep these things to himself. He didn't feel too guilty about the times when he found himself accidentally offending somebody. But Molly.. what on earth had he been thinking?

No, Sherlock knew exactly what he had been thinking. That Molly was merely a distraction. A thing. A spanner in the works that would prevent him from succeeding in bringing down Moriarty's web. But as he had found out, she was a person, and he hated most people - but Molly was not most people, she was Molly. And that was why he was actually bothered to find her and apologise. He thought of the first time he had said sorry to her; the first time he had said sorry to anybody and really meant it.

After an hour of searching, he found her exact location. A Starbucks, approximately 1.23km away from St. James' park, where he presumed Molly had visited in order to soothe herself, but perhaps found herself crying and was too embarassed to be crying in public, and so left. Or maybe she didn't like the temperature. It was early December, after all. She was sitting by the window looking moderately distraught and sipping at a hot chocolate. She'd also extravagantly ordered whipped cream, even though he was positively sure she was trying to lose weight. The cream was for comfort, then, which meant she still felt bad. Now for god's sake don't mention any of that, Sherlock firmly instructed himself. Apologise, speak gently, offer to do something to make it up to her.

Sherlock stepped inside and the warmth surged through him. He walked over to Molly and sat down on the leather sofa opposite her. Suddenly his mind went blank. He wasn't used to that either. There was so much information in his mind about the temperature inside the cafe and outside, and her body's possible reactions to the change from cold to warm - tingling, blood rushing to her hands, light-headedness - but absolutely nothing on a tactful thing to say to a friend (was she a friend, or a love interest?) whom he'd just severely offended. She cooly regarded Sherlock, waiting for him to say something, unaware of his fear of getting it wrong once again.

"Sherlock?" She sounded impatient. He felt a kind of panic.

Sometimes being honest is the right thing to do, a voice in his head told him.

"I'm sorry, Louise," he said quietly. "I'm just worried I'll say the wrong thing."

* * *

All of Molly's affections for Sherlock immediately resurfaced. Of course he had been scared of his own tactlessness. This was not a man who was used to social occasions; this was Sherlock Holmes, and Molly realised he wouldn't be _Sherlock_ if he wasn't selfish and arrogant sometimes. He cared for her underneath, and wasn't that what mattered?

She took the hint with the names as well. How idiotic could she get? Every person in the room knew who Sherlock Holmes was, and every person in the room knew he was 'dead.' "It's OK, Ben," she said, smiling. She leaned forward so he could hear her. "Won't they recognise you, out in public like this?" she whispered, concerned. He hadn't changed his hair and was wearing the tight purple shirt that she loved. He hadn't been wearing it before in the hotel room.. had he worn it here on purpose?

"Of course not," he whispered back. "I'm not wearing the hat."

She laughed out loud and moved to sit on the sofa beside him. "Really, though," he continued, "I am sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. It was stupid of me."

"You are many things, but stupid is definitely not one of them." Molly was surprised. A few months before, Sherlock would never have called himself or any of his actions stupid. He had changed.

"I was stupid _then,_" he smirked, "but not now." He paused, and then seemed to remember something. He pulled a photo out of his bag. Molly gasped. "I forgot to show you. This is Sebastian Moran. I wanted to - what is it?"

"I... dated him." It was the man she'd last gone on a date with, the tanned one with the brown hair and grey eyes, the one who'd dumped her the next day. She remembered him well, and he'd been so sweet to her.. but he was Moriarty's sniper. He'd probably killed more people than all the serial killers in England had collectively.

"What?! When?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.

"It was a few weeks ago.. I didn't know who he was.. he said his name was Mark," she stuttered. "He broke it off, said that he was meeting up with someone he'd met at university."

Sherlock nodded. "In that case," he said, "we have an advantage. You can get close to him at the ball without him suspecting you." Molly remembered that she was being watched. Since Moriarty was listening to their conversation, this plan was sure to fail. She glanced up at the security camera she'd spotted in the corner of the room.

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked. Damn it. She must have looked anxious about something.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, and smiled.

"Anyway, I have a surprise for you."

"Really?"

"Yes. I seem to remember Mycroft organising some sort of dinner at an expensive restaurant, and I was wondering if you'd care to join me?"

"That would be very nice," Molly said. "Should we go back and change into something a little more formal?" Wait. Mycroft was organising it? Wasn't Mycroft trying to force them together?

"I think so, yes." They left the cafe and hailed a cab back to their hotel. For Molly, this would be perfect, if only she could forget Moriarty...


End file.
